


A Generally Negative Treatise on Love

by Ozymanreis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (most relationships are minor), (there is minor johnlock but it is brief), Age Difference, Also A Fourth Holmes Sibling, Angst, Bad Parenting, Canon Compliant, Canon Compliant Except Sherlock's Parents Are Awful, Chess Metaphors, Drug Addiction, F/M, Growing Up, Heavy Angst, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Incest, M/M, Missing Scene, Multi, Sibling Incest, Unreliable Narrator, chess as a metaphor for relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-10-23 03:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17675441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: The story of Sherlock's birth, childhood, and every instance of love... This is how he reflects, to a certain extent (some of it, he must rely on Mycroft to fill in the cracks).





	1. Interruption

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, in this fic there are four Holmes siblings, and my own headcanons for what I thought Sherlock and Mycroft's parents should be like (while I like that they're nice, it doesn't make any sense for how they act in canon). That's about all how it's different from canon.

"A _baby_." Mycroft groans, clapping a hand over his forehead, "How on _Earth_ could they have thought this was a good idea?" The fluff of copper hair on his head was in danger of turning white, and he was only seven years old.

"Look at the facts, brother dear." Sherrinford tuts, "Seven years between all of us? Clearly you two were accidents. It wasn't an 'idea' at all." He peers into the hallway from his room, his younger sibling standing right behind him. "Alright, it's clear."

"As you've _so_ often pointed out." Mycroft grumbles, following him closely on chubby legs, traversing the long, finished wooden floors. Maids and butlers alike crawled these hallways, haunting them, _spying_ on the boys whenever their parents were out. Which, even if those incidents of absences were more and more frequent these days, today, the Holmes parents had a legitimate excuse, "And seeing their desire for a girl, perhaps I wasn't so much an 'accident,' so much as 'unexpected' and 'less than pleasing.'"

Violet and Siger Holmes hadn't really wanted children at all, but even in a time less devoted to nobility and class, the Holmes name carried considerable weight. After the death of his father, heir apparent, Siger, through particularly upsetting legalese, had been practically forced into betrothal (arranged for him by age 18, married by 25), and told that without subsequent legacy, he would find himself with nothing.

And after a life of decadent pleasures, he was loathe to let it any of it go.

"I concede your point." The fourteen-year-old shrugs, poking a hand experimentally through the door beside the bathroom. Immediately, both their brown eyes were accosted by an ocean of baby blue. They exchanged looks of: _is this all really necessary?_ before walking in, noses wrinkled, " _Ghastly_." He says, picking up a plush elephant from the bureau, "Seems they didn't get their wish."

"Agreed." Mycroft shook his head, peering into the crib, "Did you say she went into labor twenty minutes ago?"

"So she claims, but I think she was ignoring it as long as she possibly could." Sherrinford huffs, examining the various toys, "Working on her textbook — it won't go anywhere."

"Like raising us?" Mycroft says, embittered, wondering the last time he'd spent any time with his parents, not a team of nursemaids and tutors.

"Raising _you_." Sherrinford corrects, "I believe they were probably more attentive to me; I'd wager I saw them at least 90% of my childhood, even if from afar."

"If _that_ trend continues, as I'd only seen them 40% of the time…"

"Don't think too heavily on it, he'll have us."

"You really think so?" Myc asks skeptically, "Seeing as you resent me for being marginally stupider…"

"Assuming he _also_ follows a sliding scale of decreasing intelligence?" Sherrinford cackles, "And you hate me, so he'd hate us."

"Well, if he becomes avoidant, at least he won't interrupt our dynamic."

" _What_ dynamic?"

"Exactly."

 

* * *

 

Dinner that evening was silent. Even more than usual, the clinking of silverware from their parents almost delightfully absent.

Sherrinford and Mycroft give each other furtive looks across the table, between themselves and the waitstaff. Standing there, listening to whatever conversation they could have. Ready to rat on them at any moment if they said something slightly off-color.

So, in silence they ate, Mycroft taking three helpings (which Sherrinford sneered at, his little brother mumbling something about “being a growing boy”). Waited until they could shut themselves in their rooms, the attic, hide in the garden. Any place but where they were supposed to be.

 

* * *

 

Thirty-six hours of labor and recovery later, their parents returned. Neither of the boys would've noticed, if not for the obtrusive squalling the moment they crossed the threshold. "That must be our brother." Sherrinford glowers, eyes creasing in pain, "Shall we go see him?"

They returned to the pastel-blue room, now with one more occupant. Tip-toeing close to the crib, they hear the tiniest of snores. Peeking into the cage, Sherrinford huffs, “Is _that_ all?"

Empirically, yes, it was an under-developed human being, just starting in life. No knowledge, no skills, no thoughts. Mycroft _knew_ this, but flinches as he feels a soft _tug_ in his chest. Was he having a heart-attack? At _seven_? Unlikely. And the more he looked at that misshapen face, the more he _felt_ it. He wasn't supposed to, of course. Sherrinford had always told him not to feel _anything_ at all.

But the tugging was bothersome. Buzzing under his skin, he wanted to lean closer. Was this _connection?_

"Visiting your new brother?" Violet's airy voice permeates the room, sweeping in in her flowery gown, effectively shattering Mycroft's meditation. _Sentiment_. Preposterous.

"Oh _yes_ , mother!" Sherrinford flashes a smile only Mycroft can tell is fake — his older brother _never_ smiled with his teeth if he was genuinely pleased, "I'm so excited! I know Myc is too."

 _Not really. My_ croft _is just trying not to point out how much maternity weight you're going to retain, mummy._ The middle child puts on his own fake smile — his without teeth, "Absolutely darling, isn't he?"

“Mm. I suppose.” She says, peering into the crib as if it contained a shipment of staplers rather than a child.

“Where is father?” Mycroft wondered aloud, knowing _very_ well where he was.

“The study.” Their mother snips, “He missed a bit of work while at the hospital, he’s got to make a few overseas phone calls.” The standard excuse, then. 

"I don't believe the maids offered us his name…" Sherrinford says, casually fishing and changing the subject.

"We haven't told any of them yet." She gives a small pout, hand sprawling over her heart like a lanky spider, "Not quite their business."

 _Funny, seeing as they'll be acting as his guardians most of the time._ Mycroft thinks dully, resentfully, "Is it ours?"

"Don't get snippy with me, Mycroft." She warns, "Or you'll be doing lines with Mr. Ingalls."

"I'm sure he didn't mean it like that, mummy." Sherrinford simpers in his defense quickly, as he didn't fancy spending the afternoon alone.

"Mm." She hums skeptically, but the light of her approval smiles upon her eldest son. "Well, his name is William Sherlock Scott.”

 _No favorites indeed._ More and more wistful by the day, _And this family tends toward some unusual names…_ "Lovely." Mycroft replies, trying not to voice his distaste. Judging by the stunned look on Sherrinford's face, he doesn't hide it well.

"Leave now." Violet waves her hand daintily, clearly picking up on it. Practically walking them out herself, she bats them continuously, "He needs to sleep, and can't be overstimulated." _Or stimulated at all,_ Mycroft thinks ruefully.

But they follow her fussing without another word, not really caring to stare at the tiny pink blob a moment longer. The door shuts definitively behind them, leaving the boys in a ringing silence.

"Well, let's move on." Sherrinford sneers, already turning to leave, genuinely unaffected, "Your mastery of the Russian language is lacking."

Mycroft follows, head turned back, eyes searching for the last bits of this new creature.


	2. Smothered

"Seems we were right." Sherrinford says dully, watching the pudgy, toddling not-quite-one-year-old practically dash across the foyer. An over-worked maid follows close behind him, trying to reign the child in. "Poor help, must be an _experience_ to raise a child for practically minimum wage."

"Much worse that he walks on his own now." Mycroft continues for him, taking a regretful sip of Earl Grey. "Too much cream." He complains.

"Obviously we're seeing the effects of split attention, between your tea and a screaming baby."

Not entirely sure if Sherrinford was being sarcastic or not, the middle child huffs, "Are we going to play, or are you going to occupy your mind with thoughts of _Sherlock_?"

"He hardly needs a name at this point." The elder one shrugs, "Not until he can pass a mark test." His long, slender fingers skate across the old, checkered board, settling on a white pawn, advancing one square.

Mycroft scans the board, "A mark test?" He asks softly, then quirks a brow, "And don't try to put me in Scholar's mate, I've fallen for that two times in the last year, and I've since learned to spot it." His stubby fingers move a knight to block.

"Good, good. Showing improvement." It's hollow praise at best, but what could one reasonably expect from a haughty, stuck-up fifteen-year-old? “A mark test, generally used on monkeys and apes. Sit the creature in front of a mirror…” he moved another pawn, “Mark its face with a felt-tip, and see if it tries to rub the ink off the face in the mirror, or itself. Seeing if it can acknowledge the one in the mirror is 'self,' or another simian.”

White bishop cuts across the gap.

“Or our baby _brother_?” A confusing pang of protectiveness surges through Mycroft — ape or not, Sherlock was more than a test subject. Internally… what was this? He'd strived his entire life to be detached, calculating, unfeeling… just like his brother. But he was _feeling_ for his other? Should be filed away for future reference.

Sherrinford only shrugs, “It took you until you were two, do you think he’ll do anything better?” He looks down between them, “It’s your move. Impress me, and I might tell you a secret.”

Mycroft’s black pawn advances to threaten the bishop, protected by another pawn.

“No, no.” Sherrinford shakes his head slowly, his tone a waterfall of condescension, “Don’t try and force me to go on the defensive so early. You won’t learn _anything_ about me. All you’ll accomplish is teaching _me_ how novice you are.”

“I _am_ novice!” Mycroft points out, crossing his arms, not really wanting to play anymore.

“Well, now _you’re_ defensive.” The patronizing attitude turns smug, “Less than seven moves in, and you know I’ve already won.”

“Piss. Off.”

“Language.” He waggles a finger, “Wouldn’t want mummy to hear.”

“What’s the secret?”

“You’ve hardly impressed me,” Sherrinford opines, “but I suppose I want to tell you anyway…” White bishop advances, “Mummy is pregnant again.”

 

* * *

 

Mycroft doesn’t like thinking about this moment. In summary, what he must keep true in order to make the timeline fit, he knows Sherrinford told him their new sibling would come along within two months.

No one had told him, the eldest had figured it out from their mother’s sudden, not even remotely explained disappearance from their lives.

Not even a year and a half into life, and Sherlock would be competing for attention and resources.

 

* * *

 

Grumbling, the match continues, though the outcome is obvious. Twenty moves. “Smothered mate!” Sherrinford announces, crossing his arms behind his head and leaning back.

“Good game.” The reply is muttered, embittered.


	3. Eurus, Part 1

Eurus is born shortly after that conversation, but Sherlock doesn’t remember her. He was never quite old enough (with memories) to have disaffected conversations about _her_ in her infancy.

Sherlock feels an ache in his heart at the thought of his dog, but he doesn’t really remember having a dog. Somewhere in his mind, he grabbed a picture of an Irish Setter, and let it become the face of his pain. He doesn't remember much about Sherrinford either, but that is a later endeavor.

Mycroft sees to it that this is the extent of the damage (though even he can’t suppress it all entirely).

All Sherlock really remembers from any of this time is a song… And a sudden cessation of dreams of piracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter is short for a reason which will be expanded upon, note the "part 1."


	4. Such Sweet Sorrow

A suitcase and a WWII-era steamer trunk wait by the door, to be carried out by the driver in a few minutes. Embossed in gold, the name “Sherrinford Holmes” is the most recent in the trunk’s line of owners. The teen himself, now eighteen and nearly a “man” by most standards, stares out the window, at the idling car, fidgeting with the top button on his coat.

“My boy. University. And Oxford too.” Siger Holmes has made one of his rare appearances, long enough to clap his eldest son on the shoulder, conveying the barest amount of pride and emotional involvement. He wears a tweed suit, having just returned from an insurance negotiation. Something about windmills in the Netherlands. All of the boys have been assured it's the hottest news in banking, fascinating world that it is.

However, as is to be expected, said pride goes as quickly as it arrives.

“Well. I’ve got a phone call to make to our partners in Tokyo. I’ll send Mycroft and Sherlock to say their goodbyes.” He leaves without waiting for a reply, footprints robotically measured up the stairs, only a small irregularity from an old war wound to the calf (one Siger had refused to talk about, that could only be inferred).

Sherrinford hides his bemused frown with a raise and angle of his shoulder, _yes, because it really matters what sentiments an eleven-year-old and a toddler could offer me._

But that’s not what it’s about.

Soon, he hears Mycroft’s heavy steps, slow as he helps an extra _thump thump thump_ of young, clumsy legs down the stairs.

“Make it quick.” Sherrinford sniffs, turning around, leaning his back against the cold panes of the transom windows, “I should be leaving soon, have a dorm room to set up and all.”

Mycroft is wearing a white polo tee, stretching across his widened frame, same for his khaki shorts. He’s holding Sherlock’s tiny hand, the latter only wearing a just-in-case diaper. Where Eurus is at this moment, even Mycroft doesn’t remember, if he ever knew.

The elder of the duo is wearing a wistful smile, too mature for such a young child. “I’d say you'd be missed here, brother, but…" He shrugs, "I don't like to lie unduly."

"Indeed." Sherrinford nods, "As I will immerse myself in my new life and education. Far, _far_ from here."

“And you won’t think of us, as we will only think of you out of jealousy.”

Sherlock looks between them, always so quiet. He’d first spoken at two years old, and already in full sentences, but only when he wanted something, like cookies or information. “Ford is leaving?”

“Yes. Perhaps for good.” Sherrinford replies to the toddler, looking down, towering over him. 

Mycroft shoots the teen a nasty look, crouching down to Sherlock’s eye level. “We will send letters." He assures. _Out of obligation, mostly._ But it _would_ happen. Sherlock blinks, shrugs, and waddles away, eyes zeroing in on a toy truck in the adjacent room.

"Oh, _right_." Sherrinford's features darken, "You won't, actually."

“Do you doubt my sincerity?”

“Clearly.”

“Am I sensing _bitterness_ , brother?” Mycroft’s voice is more cutting than initially intended, but there’s something in his brother’s rhetoric — never before had he seemed to _care_ , but now? Did he _want_ to be missed?

“Perhaps.” Sherrinford folds his arms over his chest, sizing himself up. “But. Not as bitter as you’re about to be.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “Meaning?”

Sherrinford grins, his eyes betraying every inch of sadistic pleasure he is taking. “Heard mummy and daddy talking yesterday. I’m leaving for school, and so are you. Boarding school.”

The words hit his consciousness like a dropped egg against kitchen tile. _Boarding school. Most likely Eton._ “Aren’t I a bit young?”

“Just about.” The eldest pushes off his back, rocking on his feet. “Which is why they plan to do it as soon as they are _able_. Thirteen, probably, for secondary, is my best guess.”

“Getting rid of me.”

“Essentially.”

“To devote more time to Sherlock? To _her?_ ”

To that, they both roll their eyes, letting the silence hang as the younger’s heart pounded, brain trying to make sense of his body’s distress. In the pause, Sherlock returns, pouting, “Are you done yet, My?”

The pudgy boy inhales sharply through his nose, exhaling through his mouth, a smile forced on it. “Soon, Sherlock, soon. Go start a puzzle, I’ll join you in a moment.”

Sherlock’s small pout does not leave his face, but he nods moodily, rushing off to where they stashed the latest six hundred piece puzzles.

“Seems almost cruel to bond with him, when you’re only going to disappoint the lad.” Sherrinford comments, a superior tone, returning to the status quo, “At least, that’s my take on it.”

Mycroft huffs, quirking a brow, “Is that what stopped you?”

Looking as if he’d been slapped, Sherrinford can only offer _shock_ in response. He wets his lips, glancing aside to see the driver coming up the pathway, letting himself in. “Goodbye, Mycroft.” He lets the uniformed man take his trunk, wrapping his own fingers around the handle of his suitcase. “I’ll see you on holidays. Maybe.”

He exits with the driver.

Blinking, mind still shaking, rippling with the new information, Mycroft stands, breathing heavily.

“My!” Sherlock’s high voice calls impatiently, having heard the door shut and conversation cease.

“Be right there, Sherlock.” He replies quietly, wiling himself to walk into the living room.


	5. The Last Days of Summer

"You really are leaving then?" Sherlock asks, eyes wet and glassy, hands gripping the side of Mycroft’s thigh as he sits at the dining room table. He didn’t cry much as a child, even when hurt, but now, six years old, he feels the stirrings of heartbreak.

Mycroft is nursing bites of a piece of strawberry sponge cake, but his appetite is lost incrementally as Sherlock’s emotions permeate his own. He nods, unable to speak the words, lest he risk crying himself.

“My…”

“My _croft_ ,” He corrects, a budding defense against that beautiful voice that could grip his heart, “You’re old enough now to speak properly.” Sherrinford was... mostly right, in that Sherlock was nowhere near the same level as either of them were at his age. Perhaps it was the proverbial rolling of the genetic dice, perhaps it was Mycroft's own incompetence in raising his brother — he didn't want to risk it being the latter now. 

Sherlock scowls, stamping his foot, storming over to the other side of the table, sitting in one of the spindly chairs, slamming his face down in his arms. Anger is his defense.

“Sherlock!” He admonishes, “Be calm, and I might get you a slice of cake.”

“Don’t want any.” He mutters, not looking up.

The elder Holmes sighs, dabbing at his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Right. Well. Seeing as it’s one of our last weeks together, you think you might cherish it, rather than whinge the time away.”

In defiance, Sherlock lets out a prolonged whine, but abruptly cuts himself off as he hears high-heeled footsteps approaching, sitting up stiffly, expression suddenly, deliberately blank.

As expected, the clattering of tall shoes stops, then continues as the dining room door opens, revealing their mother, wearing a true rose, A-line dress. “There you two are.”

_Wasn’t aware you were looking, did you try calling?_ Mycroft internalizes his annoyance, managing a smile, “Good to see you, mummy.”

Violet waves it away, brushing back her dyed-auburn hair. “Mycroft, are you all packed?”

“Just about, mummy. Leaving out the essentials until the last day.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock flinch.

“Excellent planning.” She compliments, disappearing into the kitchen for a moment, setting the kettle on the stove.

The boys exchange looks, a silent conversation of _do you think that’s all she wanted? Do you think we can sneak away before she tries to engage us further?_

After a minute, Mycroft ends it with a subtle shake of his head, _Wait until she leaves on her own._

Violet returns, putting her hands on her hips, bony elbows jutting out. “It’s so stuffy in here.” She declares, “Mycroft. Take your brother to the pond.”

“Pond?” Sherlock asks, the mildest hint of incredulity in his voice.

The pond is, in fact, a pond, almost a small lake, near the edge of their hectares of property. It is a bit of a walk away from the back door, Mycroft hadn’t been since Sherrinford left, and never with Sherlock (he’d always been too young).

“I’ll show you. Get your bathing suit.” Mycroft explains, turning to his mother as he stands, Sherlock scurrying off, thankful for the excuse.

“Such a lovely suggestion mummy, especially with the summer heat fading, it won’t be feasible very soon.”

“Yes, I know.” Violet hums, nearly breathless, as if her tolerance for her children has already worn down. “Have fun.” The kettle whistles, and she leaves again.

 

* * *

 

In their swim trunks and t-shirts, towels under their arms, Mycroft and Sherlock walk leisurely to the pond. They make it there in less than forty-five minutes, climbing the top of the hill where the pond sat, bare feet sensing the change in the grass moisture before they can see it.

The sun skims over the water, almost too bright for their eyes. Mycroft walks down the incline, reaching the bottom before he realizes Sherlock has not been following, at least not closely. He turns back, confused until he sees, even from a distance, the wide grin on his young brother’s face. “Sherlock, what are you doing?” He calls up, but is answered almost immediately as Sherlock lays down, perpendicular to the hill.

He flattens out, then gives himself a push, log rolling down to the bottom, slow at first, then picking up too much speed. “ _Sherlock-_ ” Mycroft attempts to warn, but is too late, his brother tumbling right into the pond, shirt, towel and all. He runs to the edge of the water where Sherlock had gone in, hoping he isn’t hurt.

Seconds later, the young boy flounders up, coughing and spitting up water, looking thoroughly ashamed. “Physics betray you, brother mine?” Mycroft offers a smile, and a hand to help him out.

Scowling, Sherlock declines the hand, boosting himself out by the edge, tossing the sopping towel aside, flinging off his shirt onto the grass. “Miscalculated,” he grumbles, sitting cross-legged along the waterline, beginning to shiver, “Won’t happen again.”

Mycroft sits down beside him, gently wrapping his own towel around the boy, “Do you want to go back?”

“Not yet.” Sherlock shakes his head, his curls throwing off droplets of water, “Want to spend time with you. _Away_ from everyone else.”

Doing his best to conceal his smile, the older boy places his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, “I love you too, brother mine.”

A light growl arises from the younger boy’s chest, hanging his head, “I’m not going to have any friends. I’m not going have _anyone_.”

“Oh, Sherlock…” Mycroft feels his heart palpitate. “You’ll see me again. Every holiday.”

“Ford hasn’t returned.” He points out bitterly.

“Yes, but he’s an adult. I’ll still be required to return for the next, oh… five years or so. And by the time it’s my turn to go to Uni, you’ll be old enough to visit me yourself.”

Sherlock takes a painful breath in, leaning his head on his brother’s clavicle, “I’ll still be… I don’t have any friends. And don’t be daft like our tutors and tell me to _make_ friends… no one else understands.”

Mycroft just nods. Because he knows. Knows all _too_ well, the chips of loneliness that stack against people like them. Knows even better than Sherlock does, his ability to bond shredded by…

It was something he was trying to avoid by befriending his little brother, offering him some form of companionship.

“Other children my age just… want to talk about imaginary guns. Playing cops and robbers… none of them have even _heard_ of Ovid.”

“Roman poets are a little… _advanced_ for most minds in your developmental stage.”

“Don’t talk about stages again. They’re useless when it comes to me.”

“Both of us, it seems.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock groans, pulling at his brother’s shirt, “Please don’t leave.”

Unable to promise anything even _close_ to what his brother needs, Mycroft just squeezes his arm. “I’ll come back when I can.”

Sherlock sighs through his nose, throwing off Mycroft’s arm and towel, standing and dipping his toes in the edge of the water. “Let’s swim.”


	6. Ashes

It’s said that smell is one of the greatest triggers to memory. Burning toast, a fire after it’s consumed itself — yes, _consumption_ is the best word. The feeling.

Sherlock doesn’t remember, and Mycroft is loathe to remind him.

A boy of thirteen, just four precious days away from getting on that train, Mycroft wakes to the smell of smoke and tragedy. He’s almost certain he’s dreaming, but it’s so _hot_ …

The glass of water by his bedside is quickly drained, but in putting the cup back down, he misses the nightstand entirely. _Disorientation_ , he mentally notes.

The tender seconds before panic sets in are blissful. Then his system kicks into overdrive.

Really, he’d almost seen this coming, the signs had been there. If Sherrinford had been living in the house, he’d have pinned this incident down to the minute that Eurus got the idea into her mind to grab the gas can from the garage.

The floor is hot under Mycroft’s feet, but he doesn’t care. He pulls his pajama top over his mouth and nose, keeping low to the ground as he begins to notice the gray smoke, hovering around face-level. He opens his door slowly, and sees no fire, just slowly charring walls and floors. Downstairs, then. He has time, but not much.

On swift toes, he pads over to Sherlock’s room, where the small child is still fast asleep, unaware of the horrors surrounding his head. Was this her plan all along? Where are their parents, are they already safe? Mycroft can’t know, but he doesn’t hear anyone calling out.

Another thing he notices: the fire is directly under this floor, probably already torn through the kitchen.

To wake him, to leave him asleep, protect his innocence for a moment longer? But with the fire under the floor, and no way of knowing if the entirety of the stairs or path to the exits are safe, Mycroft needs him awake: he can’t climb out the window with a rag doll.

“Sherlock, Sherlock…” He gets out in a choked whisper, patting his face with a muted urgency.

His brother blinks awake, smiling at seeing him, “You’re going to stay?”

_Oh._

“Sherlock, please, listen to me.” Sherlock’s words can’t be processed in this moment, only one goal in mind, “I need you to hold onto me.”

“My…?” He asks, sitting up in bed, “It’s hot…”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Mycroft carefully steps to the window, opening it up. Thankfully, the trellis lead up this room, “We’re going to go on an adventure, okay?”

Sherlock looks uncertain, but nods, “Okay.” He goes to step onto the floor, but his older brother stops him short, grabbing his feet, “Really, don’t walk, I’m going to carry you.”

“It even smells hot in here.” Sherlock comments, but hasn’t quite yet put it together. Mycroft throws the boy over his back, going to the window, “This is important. _Do not_ let go.”

Sherlock doesn’t, clinging to him as a small koala would.

Fire trucks arrive soon. Their parents had escaped the wreckage not too long after the boys had. Eurus had been waiting outside, watching it all go up into the night.

Without Sherrinford, he’s the one who needs to make the call. Their parents won’t do it, so he must.

Their uncle (Siger’s brother) owns an island psychiatric ward. Sherrinford had left him with all of the information, telling him, probably with a portent of things to come, that he would need it one day. Their uncle is there within hours, tells their parents he can help.

He makes her disappear, promising to keep Mycroft informed of her progress (should she ever make any).

The next day, a call to Sherrinford affirms to Mycroft what his next move is: to protect them all, make sure no one mentions her again. Sherlock still doesn’t quite know what occurred, and he never can.

Erasing the memories isn’t what he _wants_ to do, isn’t what he would’ve _preferred_ to do, but Mycroft knows he’s getting on that train.

While his parents and Sherlock are off at a hotel nearby, looking to move into their vacation home for the time being, Mycroft stands, staring at the ashes of their ancestral home. Survived hundreds of years, but not this generation, compounded in on itself. Because in a way, all but the youngest son were responsible for this stain on their history.

Sherlock doesn’t remember this. In fact, he doesn’t remember this house at all, or that day at the pond.

He gets on the train.


	7. Graduation

Mycroft carries nine tons on his shoulders, one for each whole month he hasn’t been allowed to see Sherlock. The gravel crunches under the tires of the car as it pulls up the driveway, to a house that he has only seen once a year, before _that_ day.

Sherlock doesn’t remember the fire (or so Mycroft can only desperately hope).

For many reasons, to Mycroft, his exile feels longer.

Oh sure, there was ostensibly more to it than that — Siger had felt it more “enriching” for the middle Holmes child to go to a German immersion program during the winter break. And every single break in between. It had been exciting, yes, quite fruitful, considering he could now hold full conversations in at least four languages.

But at what cost? Sherlock hadn’t even bothered trying to return the messages he’d left with the maids. Mycroft senses a well-placed bitterness, the fire perhaps leaving some greater, deeper scar that brainwashing couldn’t scrub.

The car stops. The driver gets out, walking around to take in his client’s bags. Mycroft doesn’t move, taking a few deep breaths, trying to calm his hammering heart. Sherlock might attack him, and he’d be entirely justified. Every fear he had about being _alone_ …

And Mycroft had been powerless to stop it.

He exits the car, steps heavy, and not just because he’d gained a considerable amount of weight.

Then he starts to notice things: there are too many other cars parked around the sidewalk, none that he recognizes. Noise, string music, chatter, coming from the house.

Moreover, the front door opens just as he’s reaching out, a vaguely familiar face greeting him with a wide smile.

“Myyycroft.” Sherrinford drags out his name, his brown hair cropped short around his thin face, “Been a long time.”

“Brother dear.” Mycroft replies, already tired, “Forgot mummy was throwing you a graduation party today.” He notices that his brother looks… he hates to use the word, but _possessed._ His curls are plastered back with gel, his suit freshly pressed, giving some surface illusion of composure. But there are heavy bags under his eyes that he’s lazily attempted to hide with hydrocortisone, his skin is waxy and stretched to fit over his bones — he hasn’t been eating, not washing as frequently as he should.

Sherrinford is a layer of clean, trying to hide a decaying interior.

“How could you _possibly_ forget that?” The eldest rolls his eyes. “It is _all_ she’s been talking about since March.”

“Other things on my mind.”

“Oh right…” He rolls his neck in a moment of consideration. “Does Sherlock hate you yet?”

Mycroft’s muscles seize, trying his hardest to fight his disgust and fear.

However, it’s already too late. “Dear brother…” Sherrinford’s voice is pitying, bordering on a satirical simper, “Your pressure point is showing.”

“Then let me inside and I’ll get right back to hiding it.” Mycroft lets his face turn blank, shadowed by annoyance that isn’t entirely fake.

“By all means.” Sherrinford steps aside, waving him in. “I even think there’s a mocha crunch cake on one of the dessert tables.”

“Then help yourself, you could use it.”

Despite himself, Mycroft has a slice after settling in.

 

* * *

 

During his leisurely enjoyment of sweets, Mycroft mills around the party. He makes small talk with relatives, both distant and supposedly “close.” Everyone seems to be an appropriate amount of “proud of Sherrinford,” as well as equal parts ushering him into higher education. Sherrinford does nothing but assure people he’s going to go to school as long as he’s allowed.

Everyone seems happy for him, desperate to get into his orbit, as he’s pursuing an answer to one of the Millennium Prize Problems.

Everyone except Sherlock.

Little Sherlock, eight now, who isn’t at the party at all.

Mycroft excuses himself from the festivities, which isn’t hard — something about being overweight, people tended to try and ignore him as much as they politely could. He makes his way up the stairs, hand on the bannister for balance, happy that Sherlock’s room is only on the second floor. He gets there, knocking on the wood, waiting a minute, hoping for an answer.

None comes, as to be expected. The middle Holmes brother knows it is too obvious to check his room if the boy is hiding. And he must be hiding, as mummy would think it a complete social faux pas for the youngest child to miss the party.

So, Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to reveal where he could be to a potential enemy.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft calls as he enters the room, “It’s me. Mycroft.”

The room had changed a lot through the years, though not many but its inhabitant had gotten the chance to see it. The baby blue had been swapped for a darker navy, the starter dressers exchanged for antique wooden ones. A desk sat by the window, a tank on the edge, filled with water and frogspawn. Dinosaur toys littered the floor, along with anatomy books. Dusty, half-finished model ships in bottles in the far corner of the room, _Treasure Island_ beside the mess.

Everything a seven year old could want, advanced beyond his years or not.

Mycroft steps in further, traversing the clutter, standing in the middle of the room, closing his eyes. There’s a breeze blowing in through the barely-open window, smelling faintly of the ivy and azaleas around the base of the house. His own heart thuds. The sound of his breath is too obtrusive, so he holds it.

Twenty-two seconds later, he hears it. Another faint breathing, deep and slow, trying to conceal itself.

The middle Holmes walks over to the bed, flipping the mattress onto its side, revealing a mop of black curls and a tiny child. “There you are.”

Sherlock looks up, disgruntled, little face twisted into a scowl. “Did mummy send you?”

His annoyance is charming, especially in such a high voice. “Haven’t even seen mummy since I got home.”

“Typical.” Sherlock huffs, sitting up on the bed base, “But you’re here to drag me down there, aren’t you? And into that dreadful _suit?_ ”

“My intention was only to find you.” Mycroft sits beside his brother. “But. I can’t stay here. It’s expected of me to be down there.”

“It’s expected of me too.”

“Yes, but mummy makes fewer allowances for me.”

“Hmph.” Sherlock crosses his arms. “It’s not as if she _cares_. And while we’re at it…” He turns his glower to Mycroft, “It’s not as if you do, either.”

And the elephant in the room drops.

“I called,” Mycroft points out.

“I hate talking on the phone.”

“Father insisted I do other things besides come home.”

“You could’ve denied his offers.”

Mycroft wets his lips. “Yes. I could’ve. But it would’ve been rude after all the arrangements he made. Prior to seeking my go-ahead.”

Sherlock stares him down, blue eyes searing into brown, sniffing for any classic signs of untruths. After a moment, he seems satisfied that there are none, and hops off the bed. “Fine. I’ll get in the suit. But you have to stay by me the whole time.”

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

“Hardly seems like they’ve noticed we’re here at all — really Mycroft, where’s mummy in all this?” Sherlock mutters under his breath, both of them standing in an abandoned corner with drinks, correct in pointing out no one had so much as _looked_ at them.

“Probably helping the caterers with the _hors d’oeuvres_ arrangements.” Mycroft says dispassionately, not really believing it himself.

“Or chatting up the gardener.” The shorter boy states matter-of-factly.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” Mycroft hisses, “We don’t say such things aloud.”

“But it’s _true!_ ” He whines back, and his brother claps a hand firmly over his mouth.

“ _Shh!_ You’ll draw attention.”

“Isn’t that the _point?_ ” Sherlock is muffled, but it comes across.

Mycroft retracts his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not like that. Really, you’d think mummy would’ve socialized you properly by now.”

“I avoid mummy.” He announces proudly, puffing out his chest.

“Quiet, please.”

“No,” Sherlock stomps his foot, “I. Am. _Bored_.”

“Then entertain yourself.”

“I was perfectly entertained under the mattress, thank you for ruining it.”

Dejected, Mycroft looks around, wondering where his _sweet_ little brother had gone. Even debating whether or not that boy existed at all before his eyes fall on the door the back deck. “Hang on, I’ve got an idea — follow me.” He takes Sherlock’s free hand, pulling him out the door, and down the three steps into the garden before anyone could protest.

The garden is well-maintained, probably due to all of the “bonuses” Violet handed the gardener, but Mycroft figured it wasn’t an issue. So long as the topiary looked neat. Especially the hedgerows that formed a slight maze, roses popping out every now and then to act as markers.

At the center, which is his destination, there lies a chess set.

They get there swiftly, the middle Holmes having mentally mapped it long ago thanks to excursions with Sherrinford as children.

“Here.” He points to the chess board, built into a stone table, two squat rock stools on either side. He sits at one and busies himself with set-up.

“Sit there.” Mycroft gestures across the table, to another stone chair as he pulls open a drawer, beginning to set black and white pieces on the board.

Sherlock hesitates, staring at the checkered surface, crossing his arms. “I don’t know how to play.”

“Then I’ll teach you.” He replies with such ease, getting the last pawns into place.

The boy sits, still unsure, but his curiosity is at least piqued.

“Let’s start with the king.” Mycroft presses his index finger to the tallest piece. “The goal is to put your opponent’s king in a position where it is immediately in danger, and cannot be moved out of it, either by itself, or with the help of other pieces. And this one can only move one space in any direction.”

“It can only help itself?”

“Very good, Sherlock.”

“What’s this?” The boy picks up the knight. “What’s the horse do?”

“It’s called a knight.” Mycroft urges, “It moves in an L-shape, three straight, and one perpendicular.”

“That’s inane and confusing.”

“Yes, but that is the rule.”

“Then I won’t use it.” He says defiantly, resolve setting in fast.

“Oh, I doubt that…” His older brother laughs, the very stubbornness of the statement amusing, “It’s the only piece that can jump over other pieces.”

“What?” The younger one sounds almost heartbroken, “That’s…” _Not fair… But those are the rules._ The cogs in his head begin to turn, giving in and ascribing meaning to the knight.

They manage to get through the rest of the mandates fairly quickly, but as Mycroft begins to offer hints of strategy, Sherlock shakes his head violently. “No! If I beat you, it has to be from _my_ mind! Or else it’s just like _you_ beating yourself.”

“If you insist.” Mycroft, white, moves a pawn forward.

Sherlock mirrors the move.

Unfortunately for him, three moves later, Mycroft announces, “Scholar’s mate!” Just as it’d been done to him nearly seven years ago.

His brother’s jaw drops, eyes tearing apart the board, trying to find _any_ conceivable move and-

“You’ve lost, brother. Admit it.”

“Rematch! And don’t try that again!” He’s so incredulous, he’s nearly screaming.

“Alright, alright, would you like me to tell you how to avoid it in the future?”

Sherlock shakes his head vigorously. “Absolutely not! I’ll figure it out on my own!”

Well, it certainly doesn’t allow for Sherlock’s personality to be suppressed in the upcoming games. Mycroft learns quickly that his brother is _aggressive_ , and aims to take as many of his brother’s pieces as possible.

But as Sherlock is drawn into a third, very quick checkmate, Mycroft chimes in. “You need to learn some discipline, brother dear.”

Sherlock shoots him a dirty look, frustrated at his loss. “What do you mean?”

“All aggression leaves you vulnerable to someone sneaking past your defenses.” Mycroft points at his bishop that is parked comfortably behind one of Sherlock’s pawns. “And… if you focus on attack, how will you ever learn what kind of person I am?”

Sherlock raises his brows, scoffing with no attempt at tact. “What kind of person you are? It’s a game, Mycroft, not a personality test.”

“In a way, it is. You just haven’t noticed yet because you’re focused on my king alone. Like in life, there is more to it than just the victory.”

“You’re not making any sense.” Sherlock huffs, setting his pieces back up. “ _Again_.” He demands.

“One more, and then we have to go back inside.” Mycroft nods at the sky, noting the color has gone from light blue to light orange. “We can resume tomorrow.”

Sherlock grumbles, but nods. “Tomorrow. And every day until I defeat you.”

Mycroft grins. “That might be a while.”

 

* * *

 

From afar, Sherrinford watches, eyebrows arched in disapproval. 


End file.
